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Cactus Center 




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CACTUS CENTER 

POEMS 

By 

Arthur Chapman 

Author of "Out Where the West Begins'' 







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Boston and New York 
Houghton Mifflin Company 

W^z 0itjecj9'iDe f)Xt^$ Cambribge 
1921 






COPYRIGHT, I921, BY ARTHUR CHAPMAN 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



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TO 

MY WIFE 

AND MY BOYS JOHN, ARTHUR, AND NEIL 




Contents 



Jim Bridger 

The Hoss of Pecos Doyle 

The Legend of the Sagebrush 

Journalism in Cactus Center 

Mother West 

Graduation Day in Cactus Center 

Classic Dancing in Cactus Center 

The Call 

The Heart-Gift 

Daylight Saving in Cactus Center 

Cactus Center and the Census 

Cactus Center Learns Something 

Cactus Center's Semi-Centennial 

Easter in Cactus Center 

Cactus Center's Marshal 

Discipline in Cactus Center 

Cactus Center's War Talk 

Polo in Cactus Center 

The Novelist in Cactus Center 

Nature-Faking in Cactus Center 

The Debate in Cactus Center 



4 
5 

7 
8 
10 
14 
15 
17 
20 
22 
24 
26 
29 
31 
33 
35 
37 
39 
40 



viii Contents 

Golf in Cactus Center 42 

Cactus Center's Telephone Girl 44 

The Peace Conference in Cactus Center 46 

Cactus Center and the Planet Mars 48 

The Country Uplift in Cactus Center 50 

Cactus Center's Beauty Squad 52 

Aviation in Cactus Center 54 

The Tariff in Cactus Center 55 

Cactus Center's Sky Pilot 57 

Arbor Day in Cactus Center 59 

Cactus Center's Fire Brigade 61 

Cactus Center's Slogan 63 

Divorce in Cactus Center 65 

Valentine Day in Cactus Center 68 

The Freighter 70 

The Sheepman's Story 71 

The Last Drift 73 

The Art Student 75 

The Fifty-Eighter 77 

Homesickness 79 

A Frontier Drama 80 

The Hill-Man's Lullaby 82 

An Oklahoma Reminiscence 84 

The Rattlesnake 86 

The Remittance Man 87 

Navajo 89 

The Santa Fe Trail 91 

The Cattle Rustlers 92 

The Trail Bond 93 



Contents ix 

At the Cliff Dwelling 94 

The Seagulls of Salt Lake 95 

In Mesa-Land 96 

The Forest Fire 97 

Trail Song 99 

The Fire-Fighters 100 

The Geysers of the Yellowstone 101 

The Dude- Wrangler 10^ 

The Old Yaller Slicker 104 

October on the Sheep Range 105 

The Hermit 106 

Watering the Trail Herd 107 

The Cliff Dwelling 108 

The Camel Ride of Arroyo Al 110 

Arroyo Al's Antediluvian Bronco 112 

The Ballad of Prue Perkins 115 

Prospecting Time 117 

The Old Trapper Speaks 118 

The Forester's Return 120 

The Prospectors' Homing 121 

The Water-Hole 123 



Thanks are tendered Judge and The New York American 
for permission to use two of the poems herein, which ap- 
peared originally in those publications. 




JIM BRIDGER 

All carelessly we travel o'er 

The ways he trod alone; 
The noisy wheels send forth their roar 
Where he stood on that gleaming shore 

And watched the salt waves thrown. 

He saw the geysers gush on high, 
Where gleam red canyon walls; 
He saw the circling seagulls fly 
Where all in vain the salmon try 
To breast the thund'rous falls. 



He scaled yon pass long ere the rails 

Lay glistening on the heights; 
Perhaps his wraith takes up those trails 
And roams, until the starlight fails. 
Through long and silent nights. 
(1) 



THE HOSS OF PECOS DOYLE 

Now this is the tale of Pecos Doyle, of bad men quite the 

worst, 
Who rode in town one winter night, surroundin' a ragin* 

thirst; 
He 'd done his sixty mile that day, and done it all alone. 
And he left his sweatin' cowpony in front of the San 

Antone. 

He left his pony standin' there, while he went clompin' in 
And called fer whiskey, called fer beer, and likewise called 

fer gin; 
And all that time the pony stood — it was a good old roan — 
With the Unes a-droppin' to its feet, in front of the San 

Antone. 

And Pecos Doyle ripped out the oaths, as the strong drink 

worked in him. 
And he shot out all the barroom lights because they was 

too dim. 
And the tremblin' barkeep brought new lamps — you 

should hear him pray and moan — 
And all the time that pony stood in front of the San Antone. 



THE HOSS OF PECOS DOYLE S 

And Pecos Doyle broke up the games — they was mostly 

games of chance! — 
And he made a tenderfoot step high — 't was the bad 

man's fav'rite dance; 
And the night was wearin' on to dawn, and the marshal he 

had flown — 
And all the time that pony stood in front of the San Antone. 

But some one punctured Pecos Doyle with a dainty forty- 
five, 

And, dead as lead, to the barroom floor he took a sprawlin' 
dive; 

And when they took him to Boot Hill — it claims such as 
its own — 

That pony of his was standin' there in front of the San 
Antone. 

They could n't drive the hoss away — it stood with droop- 
in' head — 

Till some one sez: "Well, dog my cats! This cowpony is 
dead." 

And now you'll see a Kkker sign that turned, one night, to 
stone. 

Which same is the hoss that Pecos left in front of the San 
Antone. 



THE LEGEND OF THE SAGEBRUSH 

When the Master Workman had done his task. 

And smooth was the prairie floor. 
He summoned a manUng and thundered: "Ask, 

If you wish to have one thing more.'* 

And the manUng answered: "Broad plains I see. 

With a carpet of wondrous hue. 
But naught to appeal to my memory 

When I wander the wide world through." 

So the Master Workman planted a brush 

That gleamed like silver bright; 
And he planted it where mad waters rush 

And where the deer takes flight. 

He scattered it far, and from it rose 

A strange scent, all its own; 
In summer-time, or in the snows. 

Its deathless spell was thrown. 

And those who have breathed this magic scent. 

On the breast of a Western breeze. 
Must turn, as an Arab to his tent, 

Back home to the sagebrush seas. 
(4) 



JOURNALISM IN CACTUS CENTER 

Down here in Cactus Center we ain't much on splittin' 

hairs; 
In the fancy shades of language we are puttin' on no airs, 
But we're shy one young reporter — it was strange how it 

occurred — 
Who mussed up a brilliant future when he chose jest one 

wrong word. 

He hustled local items for the "Stockmen's Weekly Star "; 
He was young and plumb ambitious, and he made friends 

near and far; 
He never knocked nobody, but he alius tried to boost. 
And we thought he'd make a wonder on the journalistic 

roost. 

But he wrote, with good intentions, as most every one 

allows, 
**Our townsman. Poker Johnson, has gone South to rustle 

cows"; 
He meant to say that Poker was a-roundin' up his brand, 
For he didn't know that "rustle" meant to "thieve" in 

Cattle Land. 



6 CACTUS CENTER 

When Poker Johnson read it he put on an extry gun. 
And he came to town a-frothin' with his bronco on the run; 
The reporter got a warnin' and he hopped a cowboy's beast 
And he started navigatin' for the calm and distant East. 

We got old Poker quiet when he'd busted up the press. 

And had shot holes in the sanctum and had made the type 
a mess; 

And we'd like a bright reporter who is broke to Western 
slang — 

No more such babes shall monkey with our newspaper she- 
bang! 



MOTHER WEST 

There is a mother, legend runs. 

Of mothers quite the best. 
Who boasts ten million sturdy sons 

'Twixt plain and mountain crest; 
She gives of wealth a goodly store, 
She gives abounding health — and more. 
She opens wide contentment's door; 

Her name is Mother West. 

Oh, thou, whose bounties never fail. 

We are thy children, blest; 
To foreign shores we may set sail — 

Our pilot strange unrest — 
But still thy children turn to thee, 
Thy plains, thy hills, thy mystery, 
And at the last, from oversea. 

Come home to Mother West! , 
(7) 



GRADUATION DAY IN CACTUS 
CENTER 

The sharp who was expected to address our graduates 
Missed the stage at Dead Horse Crossin', so we called in 

Texas Bates — 
He had tried the higher learnin*, 'fore he took to punchin' 

steers, 
And he used a Sigma cowbrand^ so we did n't have no 

fears. 

"Kids," says Texas to the stoodents, **when you're goin' 

through this life, 
Hit the trails that lead to quiet, and away from scenes of 

strife; 
Don't git so you must smell powder 'fore you go to sleep at 

night — 
Onc't a week is plenty often for a man to start a 

fight. 

"Learn to read men jest like horses, by the rollin' of their 
eyes; 

Keep a six-gun alius handy, jest to guard agin' sur- 
prise; 



GRADUATION DAY IN CACTUS CENTER 9 

When you play cards, pick your comp'ny, and point out to 

each one there 
That you'll call an undertaker if the game ain't on the 

square. 

"And when you're runnin' cattle on Ufe's broad and open 

range, 
Keep a bite and sup for pilgrims that are homeless, cowed, 

and strange; 
For if learnin' crowds out kindness the game ain't worth a 

rap — 
And now amble up here, scholars, 'cause diplomers are on 

tap!" 



CLASSIC DANCING IN CACTUS 
CENTER 

Down here in Cactus Center we have Hved a Ufe apart; 

We've been far, we're frank in sayin', from the headquar- 
ters of art; 

Our work has kept us humpin', roundin' up the festive 
steer; 

We admit that things aesthetic find us bringin' up the 
rear; 

All of which has some small bearin' on a thing that's 
knocked us cold — 

That has set the cowboys talkin' when the cigarettes is 
rolled, 

And has proved to be the reason why the Two-Bar boss has 
swore 

That this Terpsichory goddess gits his O K nevermore. 

It started when a lady wrote Bear Hawkins from the East 
That she'd like to rent a pasture, if he had one to be 

leased. 
She said she wished to use it for her classic dancin'-school. 
And Bear wrote back: "Dear madam, I am sure a locoed 

fool, 



CLASSIC DANCING IN CACTUS CENTER 11 

But I fail to see why pastures beat the schoolhouse dancin'- 

floor. 
Which, of course, it ain't my worry, as it's grass you're 

pay in' for; 
So you'll find the pasture ready, right behind the main 

corral. 
And I speak up for some lessons for my old friend. Cattle 

Sal." 

Well, Bear's eyes stuck out Uke doorknobs when the 

dancin'-school arrove. 
And jest thirty-eight young women to the cattle ranch he 

drove; 
They was headed by a woman with a most determined 

jaw — 
The kind who, in all comp'ny, constitoots herself the 

law; 
And she said: "Now, Mister Hawkins, we have come here 

to the West 
To create some classic dances that will give our art new 

zest. 
For among these wild surroundings it will be no trick to 

find 
Some stunts to make Pavlowa fade from out the public 

mind." 



12 CACTUS CENTER 

When Old Pete went out, next sunrise, for to rope his pinto 

hoss. 
He thought he saw ghosts danein', and he called upon the 

boss; 
And the boss, though he'd been sober for a week, or maybe 

more. 
Thought he must be seein' visions Hke he'd never seen 

before; 
'Cause those dancers were disportin', all in robes of dazzlin* 

white. 
And Old Pete says: "Boss, I'm quittin' — you kin pay me 

off to-night. 
As it's me for Cactus Center, lest I feel disposed to 

prance 
And to tramp down good alfalfa in this sort of classic 

dance." 

Well, there was n't much work doin' in the round-up gang 

for days; 
There was cows that went unbranded, and good steers was 

lost as strays; 
The cowboys sat for hours on the top rail of the 

fence 
And watched the classic dancers, as they flitted here and 

whence. 



CLASSIC DANCING IN CACTUS CENTER 13 

Till Bear Hawkins said: "Dear madam, you must sure de- 
tour your freight; 

While we like your classic dancin', we must hand it to you 
straight 

That you've got our punchers locoed, and the case is just 
this size: 

You must quit this cattle country, or the price of beef will 
rise." 

Though the leader was offended, Hawkins took his stand 
quite firm, 

And the dancers started Eastward, euttin' short their Wild 
West term; 

But they've left a deep impression, and the boys don't give 
two hoots 

In reels and clogs, and such things, for to agitate their 
boots; 

And when the schoolhouse dances are given, now and then. 

You can hear the whispered comments 'mong a lot of wall- 
flower men. 

And you know that they are talkin' of the palpitatin' days 

When we got our introduction to the classic dancin' craze. 



THE CALL 

Some men must follow the sea. 

And some must follow the plough; 
But I must follow the cattle herds. 
To the trill of the nesting prairie birds. 
And the plains breeze on my brow. 

Some men must follow the sword. 
And some must follow the pen; 
But I must follow the tossing horns 
And ride, through still and starlit morns, 
To my prairie home again. 

Some men must follow the throng 

That drifts through street and mart; 
But I must follow the lonely way 
Where the sage and the cactus flowers sway. 
And sad is the cowboy's heart. 
(14) 



THE HEART-GIFT 

(Lincoln Memorial is built of Colorado white marble) 
Deep in the heart of the hills I slumbered 

Through the still seons past; 
Over me trod, in droves unnumbered. 

Creatures uncouth and vast; 
Then came the tread of the redskin o'er me — 

Light as the wolf he crept; 
And still from my couch no strong hands bore me ■ 

Still in the hills I slept. 

Then came the trapper, nor sought my whiteness, 

And 'twixt yonder heights of snow, 
Over the trail in its luring brightness, 

I heard the great wagons go; 
Yet never a one turned from the highway. 

But always went on and o'er. 
Whilst I, 'neath the trapper and redskin byway, 

Slept through the new tide's roar. 

But came a day when the hill was riven. 
And white in the sun I gleamed. 



16 CACTUS CENTER 

The fairest thing from the mountains given — 

Gold but a bauble seemed; 
Now shall I stand, while the world grows hoary, 

Builded to Lincoln's fame; 
Gift of her heart — what greater glory 

Shall the State of the High Peaks claim! 



DAYLIGHT SAVING IN CACTUS 
CENTER 

Down here in Cactus Center we believe in savin' time; 
Unlike the waste of powder, wastin' daylight is a crime; 
So we held a solemn meetin', down in Poker Johnson's 

place, 
And agreed that here in Cactus every clock must change 

its face; 
"For," Bear Hawkins said, reflective, "it will give one hour 

more 
For the studyin' by sunlight of this here draw poker lore. 
We are proud of all the sunshine that suflFuses yonder 

range; 
If we was n't boosters for it, it'd be almighty strange." 

But a shadder fell upon us when old Pegleg brought the 

mail 
And he stumped in, from his stage seat, with his customary 

hail. 
For he said, when we had told him of our daylight savin' 

plan: 
" This is rough on pore old Pegleg — you have got me on the 

pan. 



18 CACTUS CENTER 

For they've just sent word from Lone Wolf that the old- 
time schedule stays. 

And they say 1 11 run this bus line just as on all previous 
days, 

So I 'd like to have you tell me how I *11 land among you 
here 

At the time I 'm leavin' Lone Wolf. Do I make my meanin* 
clear?" 

We are peaceful here in Cactus — it takes lots to stir our 

ire — 
But this impudence from Lone Wolf set our fightin* blood 

afire; 
So we 'phoned the Two-Bar foreman, and the Star, and 

Lazy Y, 
And we got word to the round-ups, and they let the brand- 
irons lie. 
And the top hands come a-peltin' from the wide and dusty 

plain. 
And we even took a sheepman, though it went against the 

grain. 
Whereupon, when all assembled, we sent word: "Hunt 

trees to climb. 
For we're comin' over. Lone Wolf, and we'll make you 

change your time!" 



DAYLIGHT SAVING IN CACTUS CENTER 19 

There's been battles over poker, there's been bloodshed 

over booze, 
There's been men who've gone to Boot Hill 'cause of 

words that they would use; 
Men have been turned into lead mines for remarks misun- 
derstood; 
Men who would n't drink have perished — men have died 

because they would; 
But the jBght of fights was started when we entered Lone 

Wolf's streets 
And we carried daylight savin' to the uttermost retreats. 
Though we lost some ten good gunmen, we was pleased, on 

takin' stock. 
When we found that we had shot holes in each laggin' Lone 

Wolf clock. 



CACTUS CENTER AND THE CENSUS 

Down here in Cactus Center we've been hearin' cities roar 

In disputin' census figgers — but we ain't a-feelin' sore; 

We have n't growed in fashion that '11 cause the world sur- 
prise — 

Things have somehow been against it, and that fact we 
recognize. 

Our population's suffered from rows that we regret; 
First was that there little mix-up when our blood was over- 

het 
Jest because of slight misdealin' down to Poker Johnson's 

place, 
When we buried seven cowboys all along of one small ace. 

Then we lost out when that clean-up had been made on 

Cowthief Flat — 
Thirteen rustlers had departed when we'd got quite 

through with that — 
Such things make a drop in figgers when the census time 

draws near. 
But our quality is better, so we face the slump with cheer. 



CACTUS CENTER AND THE CENSUS 21 

It seems as if some rulin' ought to be made jest fer us. 
Or fer any other village where the gunman likes to fuss; 
We would break all census records if they'd figger up our 

kill, 
And would only count the tenants of the graves upon Boot 

Hill. 



CACTUS CENTER LEARNS 
SOMETHING 

Down here in Cactus Center we are bogged in puzzle- 
ment; 

A fashion question's got us where we're on the ropes, quite 
spent. 

It was started by the schoolma'am, who has come here 
from the East; 

Though it's long months since it hit us, the debate has 
. never ceased; 

It arose because last winter, when we grabbed the fur-lined 
coat. 

The schoolma'am braved the blizzards with no wraps 
around her throat; 

And now, when summer's with us, on the street she never 
stirs 

Without her neck encircled with a full-sized set of furs. 

We thought at first we'd buy her something for the winter's 

blast, 
Thinkin' she was poor but prideful — but that fool idea 

soon passed. 



CACTUS CENTER LEARNS SOMETHING 23 

For she froze our haltin' spokesman when the talk of furs 

was broached, 
And he beat it for the background, wishin' he had not ap- 
proached. 
When she bobbed up in the summer, wrapped up to her 

saucy chin. 
Then her sanity was questioned, and we voted it a sin 
Not to put the poor weak critter in a padded-cell retreat. 
Thus preservin' her from danger, first from cold and then 
from heat. 

But we sure was all dumf ounded when a tenderfoot arose 
And remarked, "You gents know cattle, but you don't 

know women's clothes." 
And he then went on to tell us that such doin's are the 

style 
In the land of the tall tepees and the crowded haunts of 

guile. 
He convinced the most progressive, but a faction still holds 

out; 
It's mostly the old-timers, and they shake their heads in 

doubt 
When the schoolma'am walks among us, with her fox furs, 

on parade. 
And the mercury jest touchin' eighty-seven in the shade! 



CACTUS CENTER'S SEMI- 
CENTENNIAL 

We've been plannin', here in Cactus, fer two months, or 

mebbe three, 
On a proper celebration fer our anniversary; 
It was fifty years, we figgered, since the foundin' of our 

town. 
And our semi-centenary was a thing we done up brown. 

First, we had a float a-bearin' Tache Pete, who settled 

here 
When the rabbit and the rattler was 'most all that lingered 

near; 
(Pete's some hairy, but his whiskers and the thatch upon 

his dome 
Had been treated, by committee, to a dose of currycomb.) 

Next, we had a float a-showin' how the old burg uster look 

When 't was took up by Slim Burrows, now the Two-Car 
round-up cook; 

And the float that caught the cheerin', and made every- 
body point. 

Was a replica (that 's proper) of the town's first poker joint. 



CACTUS CENTER'S SEMI-CENTENNIAL 25 

We had other floats in plenty — even one that showed 

Boot Hill — 
And we had two bands of music, and a speech by Windy 

Bill. 
(He's the man we've sent to Congress), and you bet we 

feel some proud. 
Of our semi-centenary — and we're whoopin' it out loud. 



EASTER IN CACTUS CENTER 

You kin talk about your racin' with your horses neck and 

neck — 
We have had one here in Cactus that's the high card in the 

deck. 
It was when a bunch o' punchers — must have been an 

even score — 
Were competin' fer a sky-piece down in Morris Levy's 

store. 

It was decked with loads o' flowers, and a full-grown tree 
or two, 

With a string of clingin' ivy windin' up and down and 
through; 

It had come clean from Las Vegas, fer old Levy had a 
hunch 

That the school teacher would get it from the Cactus Cen- 
ter bunch. 

Bud Ender reached the counter, in about one rabbit 

jump. 
With the others clost behind him, in a howlin', cussin' 

lump; 



EASTER IN CACTUS CENTER 27 

Bud had paid two shinin' twenties, but he let it go at 

that, 
Fer some hombrey broke the winder and stampeded with 

the hat. 

Well, our shins was cruel punctured with each others' flyin* 

spurs 
As we rushed out of the doorway fer to make that bonnet 

hers; 
You could see the flowers noddin' on the head o' Skinny 

Sam, 
And it looked hke coin to doughnuts he'd be first to that 

schoolma'am. 

But we heard a pony comin', and it passed us on a lope. 
With Bear Hawkins in the saddle and a-swingin' of his 

rope; 
He made a heel-cast perfect and old Skinny dropped, ker- 

thud! 
With his head, in that there bonnet, buried deep down in 

the mud. 

We are fine at mendin' saddles, and we're pretty fair on 

pants. 
But at patchin' millinery we don't stand a two-spot chance; 



28 CACTUS CENTER 

So we chipped in, after seein' that we needed somethin' 

new, 
And we sent two boys to Vegas jest to rush another 

through. 

They killed off six cayuses, but they got back jest in time 
With a sky-piece flower garden any girl'd think was prime; 
But they spent all Easter cussin' — and small wonder that 

they did — 
Fer the teacher 'd gone a-vis'tin', and her mother got the 

lid. 



CACTUS CENTER'S MARSHAL 

We was troubled some in Cactus by a gent named Six-Gun 

Steve, 
Whose disrespect for order made judicious people grieve; 
He made a reg'lar practice of shootin' up our town 
When the hkker surged within him — and we couldn't 

hold him down. 

We hired famous gunmen, who vowed that they would 

stay. 
But their usual term of oflSce was a fraction of a day; 
For Steve 'd come a-lopin' when he heard of victim new. 
And the marshal'd shuck his badges and'd skip the tra-la- 

loo. 

We was sore and plumb disgusted, and we advertised in 

vain 
For a scrapper who was equal to this son of war and 

pain; 
But we could n't find nobody who would stand and take 

and give 
When Six-Gun Steve served notice he would make such 

gent a sieve. 



30 CACTUS CENTER 

But at last we made Steve marshal, and he swelled up with 

delight, 
And he wounded six companions on his first official night; 
He held the job down proper and he showed himself true 

blue — 
Which proved to us, past doubtin', what a little trust 

will do. 



DISCIPLINE IN CACTUS CENTER 

We welcome folks in Cactus if they've got an honest 

lay; 
If their game ain't too durn crooked, we never stop the 

play; 
But a get-rich-quicker blew in, with a game we did n't 

like. 
So we did n't waste the minutes in invitin' him to hike. 1 

He advertised extensive in the papers 'way down East 
That he run a school fer cowboys, and there were n't no 

bronco beast 
That his graduates was 'feared of, and a feller was a fool 
If he could n't learn rough ridin' in this correspondence 

school. 

When Bear Hawkins heard about it, and about the tons of 

mail 
The feller was receivin', his brown face near turned pale; 
And he says: "Boys, now jest tell me, am I dreamin' or 

awake, 
That our town of Cactus Center stands for any such raw 

fake?'' 



S2 CACTUS CENTER 

So we gathered on the quiet, and we yanked the feller out. 
And we made him ride our broncos, till he'd qualified past 

doubt 
Fer the title of Perfesser, which we give him then and 

there. 
And we left him filled with needles from the festive prickly 

pear. 



CACTUS CENTER'S WAR TALK 

Down here in Cactus Center we was called on by a gent 

Whose lay was: "Preparation; or a Plea for Armament." 

We turned out strong to hear him, f er he sure was known to 
fame, 

And we welcome the distinguished and are glad to meet the 
same. 

The sheepmen, 'crost the dead line, rode in forty miles or 
more. 

And the cowmen sat beside 'em, with nobody gettin' sore. 

We was out to be enlightened by this big man, heaven- 
sent. 

Whose talk was: "Preparation; or a Plea for Armament." 

He spoke to us two hours on diplomacy and war; 

He talked of Europe's battles, till we heard the cannon 

roar; 
He talked of gallant birdmen, and of dreaded submarines, 
And of all the things that enter into modern war machines; 
And he says: "If war should hit us, right this instant, while 

I talk. 
We would have to fight with popguns, and with bullets 

made of chalk; 



34 CACTUS CENTER 

For where, in all this nation, could we find men armed to 

kill? 
Just answer that!" he hollers, and the hall become quite 

still. 

It was still for thirty seconds, or perhaps 't was forty-five. 
When Bear Hawkins rose up, slowly, and he says: "We 

alius strive 
To answer any question, so we'll show what might depend 
On this town of Cactus Center if a war note e'er was 

penned." 
Then we all stood, poco pronto, and en massy, and all that, 
And in each hand, upward pointed, was a large and deep- 
voiced gat. 
And we fired a rousin' volley — and out the window went 
The dad of "Preparation; or a Plea for Armament." 



POLO IN CACTUS CENTER 

Down here in Cactus Center we are alius up-to-date, 
But we don't go in for polo — you kin put that down quite 

straight; 
For our townsfolk's jest recovered from a hossback shinny 

game 
And there's sev'ral of us thinkin' we will never look the 

same. 

It was introdooced in Cactus by a stranger from the East 
Who said the cowboy's pony was the ideal polo beast; 
He picked two teams of players from the Bar X and our 

town. 
But he did n't check their gatlin's ^— and right there the 

sharp fell down. 

Bear Hawkins hit a whizzer that stung Poker Johnson's 
hand. 

And Johnson, with his mallet, sent Bear oflp to slumber- 
land; 

But the other Hawkins brother comes a-Iopin' with a gun — 

And the crowd jest up and vamosed while the players had 
their fun. 



36 CACTUS CENTER 

There was seven wounded players on a torn and bloody 

field, 
And the polo-playin' stranger in a deathlike faint was 

keeled; 
So we've shipped our mallets eastward, or consigned 'em to 

the flames — 
Good old poker's plenty peaceful, side of polo and such 

games* 



THE NOVELIST IN CACTUS CENTER 

We was visited, in Cactus, by a classic-featured gent. 
Who said he was a writer, and informed us he was bent 
On securin* local color for a novel of real life 
Where the picturesque cowpuncher wins the schoolma'am 
for a wife. 

So we took him to the Bar X, where we told the writin' 

chap 
That he'd find real Western color ever ready and on 

tap. 
And the foreman, Waco Roberts, made him slave the 

livelong day 
Fixin' irrigatin' ditches, and a-feedin' stock with hay. 

He hustled wood for fires, till his arms was 'most broke off, 
And he hollered at the milch-cows till he nearly got a 

cough; 
And when he says: "Beg pardon — but trot out your 

Western biz," 
Old Waco says: "Keep workin' — this is all the West 

there is. 



38 CACTUS CENTER 

"Fer it's time to teach you writers," goes on Waco, 

speakin' stern, 
"That the lane of Western fiction is 'most due to take a 

turn; 
There ain't no hullsale shootin's alius goin' on out here, 
'Cause the bad men up and vanished when we lost the old 

frontier. 

"So," said Waco, "jest keep workin^ and a-workin' nail 
and tooth. 

Till you're sure that, when you're writin', you can tell the 
world the truth"; 

But that night the writer vanished, and the Bar X was for- 
sook. 

And we're wonderin', in Cactus, if he'll ever write his 
book. 



NATURE-FAKING IN CACTUS 
CENTER 

We pride ourselves, in Cactus, on our powers of reserve; 
From conservatism's pathway it is seldom that we swerve; 
But we did show some slight temper when a chap from 'way 

back East 
Give a lecture that he labeled: "What I know of Bird and 

Beast." 

He had mastered, so he told us, all the talk of prairie dogs, 
And had heard their conversation while he hid behind 

some logs; 
He had studied kyote music (here all Cactus held its 

breath) 
And he'd seen a mountain sheeplet butt a grizzly to death. 

But he capped the evenin's climax when he read from out 
a book 

*Bout a burro and an owl that he said knowed how to cook; 

Whereupon we rose instanter, and we chased him seven 
mile. 

And no other nature-faker need apply round here mean- 
while. 

(39) 



THE DEBATE IN CACTUS CENTER 

Down in Poker Bill's old 'dobe, we was talking gent to 

gent. 
On the subject of employment for our next ex-president; 
We was sure that writin' stories would n't suit no such as 

he, 
And at last on punchin' cattle we was ready to agree. 

"The cow biz," says Bear Hawkins, *' shore will test a fel- 
ler's worth; 

It's the noblest occupation on this good old Mother Earth; 

And it's good enough for presidents, and it's good enough 
for kings. 

And I 'm here to back my say-so with the gun or knife, by 
]mgs! 

But while we all applauded, Loco Jackson, near the door, 
Sez: "I see that I'm outnumbered, but I've gotter have 

my roar; 
When it comes to occupations that ex-presidents should 

foUer 
The game of herdin' woollies skins the cowboy game all 

holler!" 



THE DEBATE IN CACTUS CENTER 41 

Well, we set there quite dumfounded while the snoozer 

had his say, 
And he'd shd out in a minit, and had made his getaway; 
And it discomposed the talkers, did the sheepman's jarrin' 

note, 
So the dee-bate's still onsettled — for we clean f ergot to 

vote! 



GOLF IN CACTUS CENTER 

We was propped against the 'dobe of that joint o' Poker 

Bill's 
When a tenderfoot was spotted, actin' queer-like in the 

hills; 
He'd a ball of gutta-percher, and was puttin' in his licks 
Jest a-knoekin' it to glory with a bunch of crooked 

sticks. 

Well, we went up there quite cur'us, and we watched him 

paste the ball. 
Till a-itchin' fer to try it seemed to git a-holt of all; 
And at last Packsaddle Stevens asked to give the thing a 

swat. 
And we gathered round to see him show the stranger what 

was what. 

Well, the golfer stuck the spheeroid on a little pile o' dirt 
And Packsaddle swiped and swatted, but he did n't do no 

hurt; 
He barked his shins terrific, and he broke his little stick, 
And when he heard a snicker, his guns come out, too 

quick. 



GOLF IN CACTUS CENTER 43 

We dropped behind some cactus, with some holes clipped 
in our clothes, 

While the golfer fer the sky-line wagged his checker- 
boarded hose; 

And when we took home Stevens, and three others that 
was hurt. 

That golf ball still was settin' on its little pile of dirt. 

So we ain't no new St. Andrews, and we hope no golfer 

thinks 
He can cut loose here in Cactus with a set of oatmeal links; 
We go in fer games that's quiet, and stir up no blood and 

fuss. 
And down in Cactus Center poker's good enough fer us. 



CACTUS CENTER'S TELEPHONE 
GIRL 

There's a telephone in Cactus — it's a new, long-talk 

machine. 
And the girl who operates it is a reg'lar fairy queen; 
The comp'ny sent her in here fer to run the thing in style. 
And she's got the cowboys locoed, clear from here to 

Forty-Mile. 

She wears a janglin' bracelet, and a rolUn' mass o' hair. 
And when good looks were passeled she was handed out her 

share; 
She sets there in her glory, in her awe-inspirin' togs. 
And she knows that she's the ruler in this land of prairie 

dogs. 

The boys they come a-ridin', from the corners of the range, 
And they moon around in Cactus, and they're actin' 

mighty strange; 
They have cut out cyards and drinkin', and they make a 

plumb mean fuss 
If some puncher, who's forgitful, rips a loud, resoundin' 

cuss. 



CACTUS CENTER'S TELEPHONE GIRL 45 

They flock up to the office, and they spend their hard- 
earned dough 

A-phonin' off to cities where there ain't no folks they 
know; 

It 's money f er the comp'ny, but it breaks the boys Hke sin, 

Fer, onhke their gambUn' pastimes, there is nary chance to 
win. 

So, onless the girl flits Eastward, there'll be trouble here 

this fall, 
Fer the round-up season's comin' and we can't git help at 

all; 
It's tough luck, ain't it, pardner, when one woman, in her 

pride. 
Gits a county full of cowboys roped and throwed, and then 

hog-tied! 



THE PEACE CONFERENCE IN 
CACTUS CENTER 

We've been visited in Cactus by a most smooth-spoken 
gent. 

Who upon a holy mission of promotin' peace was bent; 

He had jest come back from Yurrup, and, to keep them- 
selves from harm. 

He'd advised the scrappin' nations to be friendly and dis- 
arm. 

Well, he told us we should f oiler out that same most lovely 

rule. 
And should shuck our stock of Gathn's while we let our 

passions cool; 
And he talked so blamed persuadin' that Bear Hawkins 

rose the while 
And tossed out his old six-shooter as the noocleus of a pile. 

We all Uned up on the platform, and we slung our hard- 
ware there, 

While the gent of peace was smilin' and a-smoothin' his 
back hair; 



PEACE CONFERENCE IN CACTUS CENTER 47 

And he sez, when we was ended (in each hand he flashed a 

pop): 
"Pace the wall — hands up, you school kids; bear in mind 

I've got the drop!" 

Then a nifty young assistant stepped right out upon the 

scene, 
And no road agent worked faster or could do his work more 

clean; 
Then he sacked our guns and vamosed, and the spieler, 

slick as grease. 
Paused a moment, 'fore he foUered, and yelled: "What a 

joy is peace!'* 



CACTUS CENTER AND THE PLANET 
MARS 

A STRANGER blowed in Monday, on the stage from 'erost 

Three Bars, 
With materials fer talkin' to the distant planet Mars; 
He'd heard about our climate, with its air so thin and 

dry. 
And he 'lowed that right in Cactus he could catch some 

Martian's eye. 

He explained his scheme in detail, and unpacked his big 
machine — 

A telescope, some cog wheels, and a head-cloth made of 
green; 

We was all enthoosiastic, and we helped him set the 
truck, 

But the game was knocked plumb sideways by some unex- 
pected luck. 

It happened that Bear Hawkins had set out in search of 

play — 
When he gits his share of moisture. Bear is apt to feel that 

way — 



CACTUS CENTER AND THE PLANET MARS 49 

He clattered down the main street, with his bronco on a 

lope. 
And he caught the sky perfesser in a whirlin' noose of rope. 

He dragged the Mars machinery out acrost the prairie floor. 
And the telescope was busted, and the cog wheels cogged 

no more; 
He apologized, plumb handsome, when he sobered up next 

day. 
But he had to write his sorrow, 'cause the highbrow 'd gone 

away. 



THE COUNTRY UPLIFT IN CACTUS 
CENTER 

Sence the Country Life Commission called upon our rival 

town 
There's a heap of old-time notions that'll nevermore go 

down; 
We've cut out the type of rancher — and of all types he's 

the worst — 
Who thinks that irrigatin' means a-quenchin' of his thirst. 

We have told our shootin' sheriff of our back-to-natur' 

needs, 
And he's used the hoe, promisc'us, on our growth of human 

weeds; 
We have closed the gamblin' places, and the good-bye sign 

we slips 
To the youth whose springtime fancy lightly turns to poker 

chips. 

We have had a hoss-thief raisin', and the neighbors all 

agree 
That a more upliftin' session this here place will never 

see; 



THE COUNTRY UPLIFT IN CACTUS CENTER 51 

And we've planted, sence we started, sev'ral pairs of high- 
heeled boots, 
All the pairs containin' Trilbies of our gun-fight in' galoots. 

So we've put our bid in heavy fer free seeds from Uncle 

Sam, 
And we're goin' to have a college and an irrigatin' dam; 
We'll show 'em that fer farmin' that is scienced and 'way 

up 
Cactus Center's got the deadwood on that measly Spotted 

Pup. 



CACTUS CENTER'S BEAUTY SQUAD 

We have heard, down here in Cactus, how they want some 

handsome men 
As a *naugeration escort when March Fourth arrives again; 
And we want to say, "Quit lookin'," fer there ain't, above 

the sod. 
Any bunch of handsome hombreys that can touch our 

beauty squad. 

There's Bear Hawkins and his brother — him we call the 

Gila Kid — 
Neither one wears shirts that dazzles, nor a shiny stovepipe 

lid; 
Bear is shy some fingers, mebbe, but you bet his chin ain't 

weak. 
And the Gila Kid is handsome when he turns his scarless 

cheek. 

There 's Poker Bill, who 's slender and as languid as a girl — 
Them hands can sling revolvers in the fancy double whirl — 
And fer beauty that's more rugged there's old Jim who 

drives the stage; 
Plain alkaU 's his powder, and his f av'rite scent is sage. 



CACTUS CENTER'S BEAUTY SQUAD 53 

Though we don't wear golden medals that was give at 

beauty shows. 
Though we don't sport patent leathers, and we're shy of 

evenin' clothes. 
Though there ain't no dudes in Cactus — leastways none 

that we can catch — 
We can hold our own, we 're thinkin', in this beauty-seekin' 

match. 



AVIATION IN CACTUS CENTER 

We have got a club in Cactus called the Conquerors of Air; 
It's for boostin' aviation, so its members all declare; 
It meets and drinks and argues till it gits all overhet, 
But, so far as we've observed it, there ain't been no flyin' 
yet. 

They have had a play and smoker, fer to decorate their 

hall; 
They have took up cash subscriptions, and they've give a 

fancy ball; 
And, as far as people know of, they have paid oflE every 

debt. 
But, unless they've kept it quiet, there ain't been no flyin' 

yet. 

They have showed us movin' picters, and they're takin" 

magazines 
That are full of information 'bout the latest sky machines; 
But we have to hunt a hoss-race when we want to place a 

bet, 
'Cause our Cactus aviators have n't aviated yet. 

(54) 



THE TARIFF IN CACTUS CENTER 

We've observed, down here in Cactus, all this tariff -fixin' 

talk — 
How some fellers want it lowered on steel rails and hides 

and chalk; 
And we had, the other evenin', a dee-bate hard to 

beat. 
Deuce Biddle havin' challenged the views of Standpat 

Pete. 

They talked till well towards mornin' about the tariflp 

rates — 
Of tacks and soap and frogs' legs, of pups and chicken 

crates. 
Of Swiss cheese, tin and leather, of canned goods, glass and 

furs. 
Of saddles, chaps and headgear, of hoss shoe nails and 

spurs. 

There was n't hard words spoken until the Standpat 

gent 
Remarked Deuce didn't savvy what "ad valorem" 

meant; 



66 CACTUS CENTER 

And Deuce said "ad valorem" was the Injun name for 

hoss. 
And Standpat gives a hee-haw, and then lead begins to 

cross. 

They shot holes in each other, and they won't be out fer 

weeks; 
They wounded Bill, the barkeep, and his barroom 's full of 

leaks; 
And we feel right now in Cactus that the tariff's mostly 

right, 
But the rates on shootin' irons should be raised clean out of 

sight! 



I 



CACTUS CENTER'S SKY PILOT 

Down here in Cactus Center we have had a sudden 

shock — 
A preacher dropped among us and he never stopped to 

knock; 
He was certainly persuasive with his Unguistic stunts 
And announced 't was his intention f er to start a church at 

once. 

We did n't rally to him in the way that good men should, 
But he never seemed to mind it, and jest kept on sawin' 

wood; 
He tried to raise some money from the crowd at the Lone 

Star, 
But the stream of cash kept flowin', undisturbed, acrost 

the bar. 

At last, one mornin' early, he got out and shucked his 
coat. 

And we seen him there a-toilin' like a busy billy goat; 

He was ras'lin' with some timbers, and he told Tomb- 
stone Malone 

He was goin' to*build that buildin' if he done it all alone. 



58 CACTUS CENTER 

Well, the news spread 'round like lightnin', and it made us 
all ashamed; 

Such courage touched our heartstrings, and one says, 
"Well, I'll be blamed. 

Here goes my month's pay, pardners, in my old white Stet- 
son hat — 

Now chip in strong, you fellers — Cactus Center's at the 
bat!" 

So we took up fourteen hundred, and the promise of some 

more, 
And when we give it to him he was tickled to the core; 
And he lit out, late that evenin' — short, indeed, he made 

his call — 
And we found that we'd been buncoed — he had never 

preached at all. 

But we're game, down here in Cactus, and we didn't 

squall nor howl, 
We did n't shed tears salty, and we did n't roar nor growl; 
We finished up the buildin' — quittin' then 'd been too 

small — 
And a real sky-pilot 's with us, so we won out, after all. 



ARBOR DAY IN CACTUS CENTER 

Jest to please our latest schoolma'am we decided, weeks 

ago. 
That we'd have a tree in Cactus, and we'd prove that one 

could grow; 
So we had one freighted to us, and the irrigation bill 
Was soon paid f er by subscription, at so much per runnin* 

giU. 

We was lookin' and admirin' when the freighter dumped 

the tree 
Down at Poker Bill's emporium, and the talk got flowin* 

free, 
'Cause Bear Hawkins says 't was elder, and Spud Jones 

says Cottonwood, 
And they got to argumentin' as no peaceful hombreys 

should. 

Well, the rest of us got mixin' in the Arbor Day dispute. 

And, as natural as eatin', every man begins to shoot; 

We had clipped the wings of sev'ral, and a Jap bystander 
dies, 

'Fore we called in all the Gatlin's and agreed to compro- 
mise. 



60 CACTUS CENTER 

Then we waited on the teacher, and we told her, with re- 
grets. 

We'd agreed to go on treeless, and had called oflE all the 
bets, 

Fer we had a man to bury, and the voice of Cactus said 

That tree-plantin' wCcS too dang'rous — so we'd plant the 
Jap instead! 



CACTUS CENTER'S FIRE BRIGADE 

We organized, in Cactus, a firemen's brigade; 
We sent and got an engine, and we had a big parade; 
We all got our instructions as to what we was to do 
When we heard our captain's summons fer the fire-fightin' 
crew. 

We did n't have to wait long — in the middle of the night 
The fire demon broke loose, and we tumbled out to fightj 
The captain, a Down-Easter, reached the shed at the first 

clang. 
But there was n't nary helper fer to run with the shebang,. 

He waited, and he waited, and his cussin' solos rose; 

Five minutes passed, then seven, and the fire brighter glows; 

At last there comes a-whoopin' and an awful clatterin* 
noise. 

And down the street — on hossback — comes the van- 
guard of the boys. 

Their excuses never varied — they had turned their bron- 
cos loose, 
And of course it takes some minutes fer to saddle a cay use; 



62 CACTUS CENTER 

But at last the chorus dwindled when this one remark was 

put: 
"Why in thunder, all you fellers, could n't you have come 

on foot?" 

It was jest because, as cowmen, we had saddled without 

thought, 
Fer cowmen hate all footwork if there 's hosses to be caught; 
So we turned and rode back, silent, while our captain 

fetched a shout, 
Fer we'd missed our chance fer glory, as the fire had gone 

out. 



CACTUS CENTER'S SLOGAN 

We feel that Cactus Center is the Southwest's nat'ral hub, 
So we organized, fer boostin', a Young Men's Commercial 

Club; 
Our leadin' gamblers joined it, and the barkeeps done the 

same. 
And the cowmen come a-runnin' fer to help the boostin' 

game. 

We was all enthoosiastic when we met to launch the thing. 
And the talks was mild and gentle, with no controversy's 

sting. 
Till some kyote said 't was needful, and he volunteered the 

steer. 
That we have some kind of slogan fer to catch the public ear. 

The suggestions come a-pourin' from all quarters of the hall. 

Such as "Cactus Center Cackles" and "Hear Cactus Cen- 
ter's Call." 

And some yelled fer one suggestion, and some clamored fer 
a vote, 

And the chairman jumped the meetin' with a bullet 
through his coat. 



64 CACTUS CENTER 

So we Ve left the matter standin', in a sort of statu quo. 

Which is what the ancients called it when the wheels re- 
fused to go; 

We are back to simpler problems, such as card hands and 
their powers, 

And we '11 leave the slogan question to more peaceful burgs 
than ours. 



DIVORCE IN CACTUS CENTER 

Down here in Cactus Center we ain't herded much in 

schools — 
We don't know no college rahrahs, but we ain't a bunch o' 

fools; 
And you bet no legal lighters can come here and hem and 

haw 
And heel-rope us and hog-tie us in the meshes of the law# 

The last galoot who started fer to run a crooked course 
Was the lawyer fer old Squaw Bill, in a suit fer a divorce; 
Old Bill's a teepee Yankee, and he thought he'd try the 

law 
Fer to shake his lovin' woman — a poor Jicarilla squaw. 

When the case come up fer hearin', 01' Bill, who's struck 

it rich. 
Sat behind the shifty lawyer who set out to break the 

hitch; 
The squaw can't talk no English, but jest sprawls there on 

the floor, 
A-nursin' one wee infant, and a-quietin' two more. 



66 CACTUS CENTER 

Well, the lawyer proved it backwards, and no doubt he 

proved it straight, 
That there were n't no legal marriage, and OF Bill could 

pull his freight; 
And the squaw, she can't say nothin', but jest sets there in 

a fog. 
With her eyes all bright and swimmin', like a starved and 

kicked cur-dog. 

Well, the court took an adjournment, and Bill's lawyer 

shook his hand 
And said: "We've won it, Willum, by the laws of this here 

land"; 
But the Injun woman set there, with her baby at her 

breast, 
Till Bear Hawkins up and hollered: "Hang the law — the 

right is best!" 

So we gathered in Squaw Willum and his high-priced legal 

shark. 
And we stood Bill on a barrel, all the same's a hangin' 

lark; 
And we said we'd kick the staves in, 'less he swore that 

he 'd be true 
To the Jicarilla lady, which he said that he would do. 



DIVORCE IN CACTUS CENTER 67 

And when Willum and his f am'ly started out f er their home 
tent. 

We set the lawyer peltin' down the back-trail, jest hell- 
bent; 

Fer your Blackstone *s poor perteetion, though your books 
may weigh a ton. 

When the other cause is righteous, and is backed up with a 
gun! 



VALENTINE DAY IN CACTUS CENTER 

Things is quiet, here in Cactus, and our buUyvards now 

lack 
The brisk, upliftin' infloo'nce of the forty-five's loud 

crack; 
There's three doctors and some nusses, all the way from 

San Antone, 
And they 're patchin' up the leavin's of a Valentine cyclone. 

It was all because Bear Hawkins, who's some clever with 

the pen. 
Drew a bunch o' comic picters of our foremost fightin' 

men; 
He cartooned Windy Porter as a sheep in cowboy's clothes 
And he handed worse to others 'fore he hails the stage and 

blows. 

It was n't many minutes 'fore the post-office was filled 
With a seethin' bunch a-thirstin' fer to see an artist 

killed; 
They did n't think o' Hawkins, fer he 'd covered up his 

play. 
So they fell to argumentin', in a gin'ral sort o' way. 



VALENTINE DAY IN CACTUS CENTER 69 

They wrecked the gov'ment boxes, and they bloodied up 

the floor — 
It was freshly laid with sawdust, and the P.M. ripped and 

swore — 
And they used the doors and shutters and then tore the 

big sign down 
Fer to bear away the wounded when the smoke had left the 

town. 

So we ain't too strong in Cactus on this comic picter biz. 
And we're waitin' fer Bear Hawkins jest to tip off where 

he is, 
But he keeps hisself in hidiri', though he sent us this one 

line — 
"I still love you, Cactus Center — won't you be my valen- 

tine?" 



THE FREIGHTER 

There's a desert stretcliin' on before. 

And desert stretchin' on behind; 
It 's camp here on the desert floor 

And eat my beans and bacon rind; 
I Ve done jest thirty miles to-day — 

Four horses ploughin' through the dust; 
There ain't no words left f er to say — 

No cuss words that I Ve left uncussed. 

The road ain't any buUyvard — 

It's jest a whisper, or a hint; 
It 's skid, with brakes a-squealin' hard, 

Down canyon sides as hard as flint; 
The sands are deep as human sin. 

But I have got to put her through 
In storms, or suns that peel the skin — 

Envy the freighter's job — hey, you? 
(70) 



THE SHEEPMAN'S STORY 

There's a nester at the water hole — 
He's drove his homestakes deep, 

And we must move acrost the plain — 
Me and three thousand sheep. 

Fer me and Mr. Nester Man 

Talked sassy yesterday — 
A conversation in which guns 

Had quite a lot to say. 

*Move on," a zippin' bullet sings, 

A-flyin' past my head; 
*I'll stay awhile," I answered back 

In form of moulded lead. 

But when night come we quit our talk, 

And I set down to think. 
And then I knowed that I must hunt 

Some other place to drink. 

I knowed the old sheep range was doomed 
I'd lingered there too late; 



CACTUS CENTER 

The homesteader must have his way — 
'T is in the book of fate. 

So when the mornin' broke again 

I slung a flag of truce. 
And me and Mr. Nester talked 

And drank of friendship juice. 

He let the sheep band have its fill, 

And then I said good-bye. 
And trailed the herd, with old Shep's aid. 

To some more friendly sky. 

Where are we goin"? — well, that's hard — 

It stumps me, I confess; 
There ain't no place that welcomes lambs 

But old Wall Street, I guess! 



THE LAST DRIFT 

I've sold the old ranch, stock and all. 

And let my cowboys go; 
I'm driftin' into town this fall, 

'Long with the first deep snow; 
I've stuck it out, the last cowman 

'Twixt here and Painted Stone; 
For forty years — a healthy span — 

I've fought my fight alone. 

I ' ve fought the northers and the sheep, 

I've won, and lost, and won; 
But every year, at spring's first peep, 

The old chuck wagon 'd run; 
Now it has vanished, with the rest — 

Its round-up days are o'er — 
The range is gone — I s'pose it 's best — 

And fate has closed the score. 

Last night I dreamed of olden days. 
When cattle roamed the hills 

And cowboys rode the prairie ways — 
No more their presence thrills — 



74 CACTUS CENTER 

I saw the moon shine through a rift, 
On him who stood night guard. 

But woke to find that I must drift. 
Though drif tin's hard, plumb hard! 



THE ART STUDENT 

The Kid has quit the ranch, doggone it all! 

It don't seem like the same old lively place; 
There ain't no music in the spring bird's call; 

The animals all seem to miss his face; 
His pony's runnin' round the big corral, 

And lookin' wistfully between the bars; 
The foreman's moonin' jest like any gal, 

Because the Kid's struck eastward on the cars. 

He sketched a bit — and he was clever, too — 

He made the round-up wagon and the boys; 
You oughter seen the purty things he drew, ' 

And slingin' paint was chief of all his joys; 
But he could twirl the rope the handiest 

Of any puncher on this cattle range; 
No bronk could throw him — he was sure the best; 

To see him puUin' leather 'd be strange. 

But now he's gone, with store clothes on his frame 
Instead of leather pants and flannel shirt; 

He's gone to make himself an honored name; 

We know he'll win — but, friend, our hearts are hurt; 



76 CACTUS CENTER 

We're sad at losin' him, so clear of eye, 
So willin' when it come to play his part. 

E'en though we know he '11 rope, and not half try. 
That buckin' bronco known to men as Art! 



THE FIFTY-EIGHTER 

{After Bret Earte) 

"I CAME," said the stranger, "in fifty-eight — *' 
Cried the Denverite, "Say no more. 
But rest thee, grizzled pioneer. 
And tell me of days of yore." 

"'T was fifty-eight," the stranger said; 
Cried the Denverite, "Nay, no more — 
But eat your fill at my humble board 
While you tell me of scenes of gore. 

"No doubt you fought with the redskin horde 
Encamped on the raging Platte; 
No doubt you ' ve slain the buffalo 
On the site of this six-room flat." 

"Not on your life," said the aged man; 
"I tempted no such fate, 
But crossed the plains a week ago 
In freight car fifty-eight." 



78 CACTUS CENTER 

Then the Denverite said him never a word, 

But smote with his fist the pate 
Of the tramp who had crossed the Western plains 

In freight car fifty-eight. 



HOMESICKNESS 

The sagebrush ain't a handsome plant - 

Its odor can be beat; 
But when you 're gone away from it 

The sage is mighty sweet; 
You recollect the wide expanse 

Of silver-covered plain, 
And jest for one more sight of it 

You'd trade your fields of grain. 

The cactus ain't a lovely flower, 

Competin' with the rose. 
But when you're miles and miles away 

You want it, goodness knows; 
You'd wear it, spikes and all, upon 

The lapel of your vest. 
Because it brung to you a hint 

Of your brave, open West! 
(79) 



A FRONTIER DRAMA 

Chuckwalla Chuck was a bold, bad man. 

And he packed a brace of guns; 
He had notched the same for Daring Dan 

And a host of other ones; 
All people feared this bully great. 

Who swaggered through the town; 
And even the sheriff pulled his freight 

And hit for the prairie brown. 

But a tenderfoot struck the town one day — 

A wizened, mild-faced cuss, 
And he got in the Chuckwalla person's way 

And invited a powder fuss; 
We tried to hustle him out of range. 

But he simply would n't go. 
And said he'd stick — though we thought it strange • 

To the very end of the show. 

Did we carry the chap to the railroad train 

On a stretcher made from a door.^ 
Did we fan a brow that was drawn with pain. 

And bandage a frame that was sore? 



A FRONTIER DRAMA 81 

Did we write to his folks how it came to pass 

That lead in their boy was hid? 
Did we say he was n't in Chuckwalla's class ? 

You bet your life we did! 



THE HILL-MAN'S LULLABY 

The city's fine and purty 

With its blaze of 'lectrie lights. 
Though the starlit mountain reaches 

Are more beautiful o* nights; 
But the thing I miss most frequent 

Ain't the clear and smokeless sky. 
But the startin' up, at evenin', 

Of the kyote's lullaby. 

I alius know it's bedtime 

When I hear that lonesome yip — 
As a curfew the gray skulker 

Never 's known to make a slip — 
And I toddle to my blankets 

When them mournful notes float by 
And the hills fling back the echoes 

Of the kyote's lullaby. 

Here there ain't no friendly warnin's 
Sent by critters of the wild. 

And there ain't no bedtime summons 
Fer the grown-up or the child; 



THE HILL-MAN'S LULLABY 

I'll be glad when through the silence 
I kin hear that welcome cry. 

And I sink to dreamless slumber 
To the kyote's lullaby. 



AN OKLAHOMA REMINISCENCE 

She's standin' there, by the pasture fence, crippled and 

old and gray — 
The nag that carried me in the race on the April openin' 

day; 
Come here, old gal — yes, here's a lump to sweeten that 

bit of hay. 



Just sixty mile we rode, — us two, hittin' an unmarked 

trail. 
For the gun had popped and the mob was ofif, and it was n't 

no time to fail. 
With the competition a-comin' fast, right there at the good 

mare's tail. 



I'd had my eye on this favored spot, and I knowed, with a 

fair, square shake, 
I could reach it fust from the nearest point, and drive my 

own homestake, 
But a cowboy stuck at my gray mare's side like he loved 

her for old times' sake. 



AN OKLAHOMA REMINISCENCE 85 

He was ridin' a down-east runnin' hoss, with legs like a 

clump o' stilts. 
But I slammed the quirt to the good gray mare, and the 

down-east hoss jest wilts. 
With the cowboy diggin' him with both spurs, clean up to 

the bloody hilts. 

Well, he seen he was gone, and he drew and shot, and the 

gray mare groaned and fell. 
And I set up slow in the prairie grass, with a head like a 

ringin' bell. 
But I plugged the man as he passed me by, and he cashed 

in with one word: "Hell!" 

I finished the ride on the down-east hoss, but I soon rode 

back from my land, 
And I cared for the crippled mare as I should — here, girl, 

there's more in my hand — 
And I alius will, as long as she Uves, which fact you can 

understand. 



THE RATTLESNAKE 

No craven, thou, all silently to strike 

When man goes by; 
Thou biddest all whose mien thou dost not Kke 

To come not nigh. 

Thy pulsing rattles sound a hard alarm 

That all may heed; 
War 's not thy choice — to do no mortal harm 

Is all thy creed. 

And yet how swift, when battle must be done. 

Those white fangs flash; 
And, striking home, how soon your victory's won 

From foeman rash. 

And so, move on, thou hero of the plain! 

Thou art secure. 
For I am short — confession gives me pain — 

Of snakebite cure. 

(86) 



THE REMITTANCE MAN 

Nobody seemed to know him, and nobody seemed to 

care 
To ask him where he come from — perhaps we didn't 

dare; 
He dwelt alone and silent away up on the hills; 
He never done no ranchin' — but he alius paid his bills. 

He rode the best of bosses and he kept a huntin' pack, 
But no one spent an evenin' up yonder in his shack; 
Some said back there in England he had been a dook or 

earl, 
And had met a disapp'intment at the hands of some fair 

girl. 

It sounded sorter likely, he was so durn distant-like, 
And he never stopped to gossip when we met him on a 

hike;* 
He lived a year amongst us ere we found, one summer's 

day. 
That he'd lit out of the country in a pussy-footed way. 



88 CACTUS CENTER 

The detectives, who came after, prowled around his place 

a bit. 
And unearthed, from out the cellar, a counterfeiter's kit; 
And his blamed remittance money, that so freely he had 

flung. 
Had a most suspicious tinkle — and we found that we'd 

been stung. 



NAVAJO 

Rough are the trails we follow. 

Hot are the winds we face; 
Swift as the cliff -bred swallow 

Over the plains we race; 
Out of the hills, low-lying, 

Ride we a thousand strong; 
Hark, on the breezelet dying. 

Unto the herdsmen's song. 

Over parched water-courses. 

Scars in the desert's breast, 
Swiftly we urge our horses. 

Putting the wind to test; 
Now through the mountain passes. 

White with eternal snow. 
Then deep in prairie grasses. 

So ride the Navajo. 

Far are the fires that twinkle. 

Calling us always home; 
Faint are the bells that tinkle, 

There where our sheep-bands roam; 



90 CACTUS CENTER 

Let the black night entrap us. 
Veiling her stars in rain; 

Slumber shall e'er enwrap us — 
Bedouins of the plain. 



THE SANTA FE TRAIL 

It winds o'er prairie and o'er crest. 
And tracks of steel now glance 

Where once it lured men to the West, 
The highway of Romance. 

Its furrows now are overgrown 
With snowdrift or with flower; 

Lost are the graves so thickly sown 
By Death in that dim hour. 

But when the night has drawn its veil 
The teams plod, span on span, 

And one sees o'er the long dead trail 
A ghostly caravan. 
(91) 



THE CATTLE RUSTLERS 

The spirit that lived in old Sherwood's lanes 

In the days of bold Robin Hood, 
Is living to-day on the lonely plains 

In the camp of the Never-Be-Good. 

We come when we will, and go where we please. 

And we levy a heavy toll; 
We 're free as the wind that blows through the trees 

On the crown of yon Dead Man's Knoll. 

We are kin to the wolf who fares on his quest. 
And picks the herd's pride for his kill; 

We dine on the fattest and saddle the best. 
And what man shall render a bill? 

The trail to our stronghold is steep and rough — 

It is not for strange feet to roam; 
So follow it not — let a hint be enough — 

Lest you find not the back trail home! 
(92) 



THE TRAIL BOND 

They have seen the storm-clouds marshaled above the 

spirehke peak, 
They have felt the stinging North wind 'twixt canyon 

walls, bare, bleak; 
For they have trod those backgrounds where dim are 

human trails, 
And bound are they as brothers in a bond that never fails. 

They have marked the trembling vision in the desert's 
upper air. 

Where life is prone and swooning in the desert's furnace- 
glare; 

And some of them were silenced, and slept as weary should. 

But those to-day who answer are souls in brotherhood. 

The bond that ties the trailmen has lashed them heart to 

heart; 
No ritual contains it — there is no actor's part; 
No man has ever voiced it, yet strong the spell it lays 
Upon the spirits, daring, that thread the unblazed ways. 

(93) 



AT THE CLIFF DWELLING 

Like swallow's nest, upon the wall. 

It overlooks the canyon vast; 
No more the laughing children call — 

No water-carriers file past. 

Yet here, upon the rock's warm face. 
Where many thousand suns have smiled. 

One finds of life a startling trace — 
The palm-print of a little child. 

A roguish jest, beyond all doubt — 
The imprint of a painted hand. 

And then a merry, ringing shout 
That broke the calm of Mesa-Land. 

The swallowlike abode is drear — 

A nest from which the birds have flown — 

But through the ages, bright and clear. 
The hand-print lingers on the stone. 

And on the winding rocky stair 
One pauses, startled at the sight, 

As though the hand that put it there 
Had reached out of eternal night. 

(94) 



THE SEAGULLS OF SALT LAKE 

The desert hush is on all things — 
One hears no crash of breakers wild — 

And yet, what mean these circling wings 
Against the blue arch, undefiled? 

How came, and when, these wand'rers bold, 

Unto this dead sea of the plain. 
Far from the whitened crests that rolled 

Upon wide sands, and rolled again? 

Yet here those wings flashed ceaselessly 

When, awestruck and with shortened breath. 

The first white trapper wonderingly 

Gazed on the white-edged Lake of Death. 
(95) 



IN MESA-LAND 

In Mesa-Land the sand dunes stretch afar. 
The rattler basks unhindered in the sun. 

And there are battlements that hint of war. 
And, in the gorges, sullen rivers run. 

Aye, there are battlements, from whose high walls 
A Front-de-Bceuf might send his challenge down, 

But silence reigns, and no portcullis falls — 
Unbroken is the desert's somber frown. 

In Mesa-Land the cloud-ships 'gainst the blue. 

Are white as any sail viewed from the strand. 
And all the peace of years envelops you 
In Mesa-Land. 
(96) 



THE FOREST FIRE 

The smoke-clouds roll like an angry flood 

Down the mountain's pine-clad side; 
The sky to-night will be red as blood. 

And where is the deer to hide? 
The crash of the blazing trees is heard. 

But the voice of the flames dulls all 
And smothers the call of the circling bird 

Like the roar of a waterfall. 

The red sparks flutter abreast the breeze. 

Each one like a demon a- wing; 
The bull elk staggers, with trembling knees. 

To the fork where the trout streams sing; 
No foaming torrent the flames can stay. 

And they rush like relentless fate, 
While the charred pine-trunks in the ashes gray 

Show a forest made desolate. 

But green, 'neath the sun and silver stars. 

Shall the mountain gleam anew. 
For a carpet of pines shall cover the scars 

Where the flame god's hosts marched through; 



98 CACTUS CENTER 

And thus it is that the hearts of men. 
When swept by the flames of woe, 

*Neath Time's kind touch shall bloom again, 
And shall greater beauties show. 



TRAIL SONG 

The lead horse bends to the task, full strong. 

And the others follow fast; 
The saddle creaks with an endless song. 

In the ears of him who's last: 
Climb, climb, 

Nor waste your time. 
For steep is the trail 'neath the peak sublime. 

The iron clatters upon the stones. 

And fast the red sparks fly; 
Down in the depths the pine-tree moans 

In the winds that hurry by; 
Speed, speed, 

Urge weary steed. 
For the canyon yawns below in greed. 

Now the pack is loosed in the friendly glade — 

The camp-fire smoke curls high; 
And soon has the trailman's bed been made 

Beneath a star-gemmed sky; 
Rest, rest. 

Peace in your breast, 
No harm shall you find at the mountain's crest. 

. (09) 



THE FIRE-FIGHTERS 

"Where's Smith and Hennessy, Edwards, Stowe • 
Where's Casey and Link and Small?" 
The ranger listened, and murmured low; 
"They're missing, Chief — that's all. 

* Where the smoke rolls high, I saw them ride — 

They waved good-bye to me; 
Good God! they might as well have tried 
To put back the rolling sea. 

"I rode for aid till my horse fell dead. 
Then waded the mountain stream; 
The pools I swam were red, blood-red, 
And covered with choking steam. 

"There was never a comrade to shout ^ Hello,' 
Though I flung back many a call; 
The brave boys knew what it meant to go — 
They're missing. Chief — that's all." 

(100) 



THE GEYSERS OF THE YELLOW- 
STONE 

What Tantalus is chained below, 
To sigh thus through the years — 

To voice, in thund'rous groans, its woe 
And damp the earth with tears? 

Those tears, like spindrift, winds have thrown 

Along the gleaming Yellowstone. 

What mighty power is surging here 
Beneath earth's trembling crust. 

And sends those columns, white and clear, 
Above the dazzling dust? 

But Time shall answer — Time alone — 

The riddle of the Yellowstone. 

The clouds shall gather overhead 

As in dim ages past; 
The lightning jBash shall oft be sped 

And storms shall fill the vast; 
Still shall they mock the thunder-tone — 
The geysers of the Yellowstone. 
(101) 



THE DUDE-WEANGLER 

Bring me some good red likker — the kind that smokes in 

the glass; 
IVe been herdin' a dood from Boston in camp on Yeller- 

stone Pass; 
A dood with a Httle green sky-piece, and ridin'-school boots 

and pants; 
I'm quittin' the game, Mr. Barkeep — it don't give my 

nerves a chance. 

He was alius lost in the sagebrush, when he wasn't in 
trouble in camp; 

He was skeered to stay out in the evenin', lest his mail- 
order clothes 'd get damp; 

He thought that a wolf was howlin' when he heard an old 
pack-hoss neigh, 

And he tumbled oflf 'n his bronco at least twenty times a 
day. 

So gimme a jolt of the red stuff — the kind with a fight in 

each glass; 
I've close-herded all I'm goin' to this dood fro;m the tall 

green grass; 



THE DUDE-WRANGLER 103 

I 'm back to the steers and the round-up, so jest watch me 

hit the breeze; 
Compared with this tenderfoot nursin', cowpunchin' 's a 

life of ease. 



THE OLD YALLER SLICKER 

The old yaller slicker's the eowpuncher's friend — 

His saddle is never without it — 
It's rolled in a bundle and tied at each end. 

But it's ready for service, don't doubt it. 

When the sun bathes the hills in a dazzling glow 

Across which the cloud shadows flicker, 
Then the night-herd's asleep, where the round-up tents 
show. 

With his head on his old yaller slicker. 

But in days when the rain drives aslant o'er the range. 
And the far hills the storm king is hiding, 

Then the old yaller slicker gleams ghostlike and strange 
Where the tireless cowboy is riding. 

Oh, it's wrinkled and torn, and it never looks new — 
In the town it would stir up a snicker — 

But the style can go hang — it's a friend tried and true, 
Is the eowpuncher's old yaller slicker. 

(104) 



OCTOBER ON THE SHEEP RANGE 

There ain't no leaves to turn to gold — 

There ain't a tree in sight — 
In other ways the herder's told 

October's come, all right. 

Jest like ten thousand souls, all lost. 
The wind howls — ain't it nice ! — 

The water-hole is froze acrost 
With crinkly-crackly ice. 

The sheep bed down before the sun 

Has hit the rim of hills; 
The prairie wolves are on the run 

To make their nightly kills. 

But kyards are sayin', "Solitaire," 

The bacon's fry in' prime; 
The old sheep wagon 's free from care 

In late October time. 
(105) 



THE HERMIT 

He watches where the wild deer drink. 
He hears the bull elk's echoing call; 
And, where the evening shadows fall, 

He sees the mountain lion slink. 

No pulsing artery of steel, 

That leads unto the distant town. 

Has lured him from the peaks that crown 

The groves where Nature's voices peal. 

He gazes on a granite sea - 

Grim hills by giant hands uptossed — 
All sense of time has long been lost. 

The days have merged so silently. 

No fear he knows — no childish dread — 
So shall he gaze, with eyes serene. 
When, from the woods of changeless green, 

Death stalks him with a catlike tread. 
(106) 



WATERING THE TRAIL HERD 

The sand dunes stand, 'mid desert sheen. 

And glare back at the sun, 
But at their feet a fringe of green 

Tells us our goal is won. 

The cattle, standing in the stream. 
Have slaked their burning thirst; 

Drink deep — for we must turn where gleam 
More pulsing sands accurst. 

Drink deep — the trail still leads afar 

Across a treeless plain, 
And some shall die where vultures are. 

Nor feel the blessed rain. 

The shifting sands their bones shall hide 

Upon the desert way; 
All other streams, we hear, have dried — 

And so drink deep to-day! 
(107) 



THE CLIFF DWELLING 

On the cold, gray wall of the canyon deep. 

It hangs, like a great bird's nest; 
And threadlike trails, rock-strewn and steep, 

Lead one from the stream's unrest; 
The crumbled walls stand in the sun. 

As laid by the cliffman's kind — 
When you and I our tasks have done 

Shall we leave as much behind? 

The pine-trees fall in the winter's blast. 

And the deep snows melt in the spring. 
But still the ancient home stands fast 

And its walls to the canyon cling; 
And the footprints stay on the narrow trails 

That high on the grim walls wind — 
When you and I have told our tales 

Shall we leave as much behind? 

In the house, as a sacred thing apart, 
A sketch shows through the stain; 

It tells of the struggling thing called Art 
That lived in the cliflf man's brain; 



THE CLIFF DWELLING 109 

Nor smoke nor age can the lines eflFace, 
And they stand forth, as when designed — 

When you and I have yielded place 
Shall we leave as much behind? 



THE CAMEL RIDE OF ARROYO AL 

With an old, goat- whiskered burro, that had seen a better 

day, 
I was prospectin' fer pockets, down around Death Valley 

way; 
I had run plumb out of flour — had no bacon left to fry — 
When that burro had the meanness to hee-haw twice and 

die. 

I was twenty miles from water, and about a block from 

hell; 
Fer a man'd soon strike sulphur if he tried to dig a well; 
But I walked along the desert till my head begun to ring. 
And the heat made me so locoed I cut loose and tried to 

sing. 

But I stopped my crazy racket, fer, right before my eyes, 
I saw two meek-faced camels — beasts of reg'lar side-show 

size; 
I thought at first I 'd dreamed 'em, in my own light-headed 

fix. 
But I saw, on creepin' closer, that they wasn't desert 

tricks. 



THE CAMEL RIDE OF ARROYO AL 111 

I remembered then about 'em — how the Gov'ment tried 

its hand 
At breedin' Eastern camels in this far-off Western land; 
And those must have been the remnants o' that herd o' 

Uncle Sam's, 
A-lyin' there, contented as a brace o' new-born lambs. 

Well, I roped one o' the critters, and I snubbed him round 

a rock. 
And I lashed myself upon him, when I'd tied him, head to 

hock; 
Then I cut the ropes that bound him, and he lit out 

somethin' grand. 
Like a red-hot streak o' lightnin' across the white-hot sand. 

Well, I rode a day upon him 'fore he stopped to take a rest. 

And he carried me to snow-line, on a far-off mountain crest; 

And we both drunk melted snowballs, and then my hump- 
backed steed 

Said "Adoo," and sought the desert, while I hunted home 
and feed. 



ARROYO AL'S ANTEDILUVIAN 
BRONCO 

I WAS out a-ridin' fences, on the Freeze-Out Mountain 

Range, 
When I had a night's experience that I call most weird and 

strange; 
I was sleepin' near Bone Cabin, where the hills are red as 

blood — 
It's where the college experts find them beasts that beat 

the flood. 

I was wakened, 'long at midnight, by a most onearthly 

sound. 
And I found my bronk had bolted — yanked his stake-pin 

from the ground; 
'T was a sure onholy racket, and my flowin' locks they 

riz. 
And I felt like that there Hamlet when his blood stood still 

and friz. 

Well, the moon was shinin', pale-like, and I saw a mighty 

shape 
A-loomin' right before me — and there were n't no escape; 



ARROYO AL'S ANTEDILUVIAN BRONCO 113 

It was broad as this here bunkhouse, and was twict as long, 

at least — 
A bone-digger 's since told me 't were a dinosaurus beast. 

Well, I saw there were n't no runnin' that would make a 

getaway, 
So I walked up to the critter — fer I'd drunk a few that 

day — 
And I yelled jest like a foreman, and he knelt down in his 

track. 
And I climbed up on a boulder and then swung ofif on his 

back. 

So I rode off in the moonlight, on my Stone- Age saddle 

horse, 
And I put him through his paces, like a racer on the 

course; 
I quirted him and spurred him, and I wished I had my 

rope 
Fer to snub a maverick or two when goin' on a lope. 

I rode till blamed near daylight, when my steed begins to 

buck. 
And, havin' nary saddle, gettin' throwed was jest my 

luck; 



114 CACTUS CENTER 

No, I couldn't dream this story, fer when I waked up 

there 
I was jest a hundred miles from where I 'd said my evenin' 

prayer! 



THE BALLAD OF PRUE PERKINS 

Miss Prub Pbiscilla Perkins was a prim New England 

maid. 
And she never had a suitor since her hair came out of 

braid, 
Though she looked like Dresden china, when in Sunday 

best arrayed. 



But Prue went West one summer, and she proudly wrote 

her name 
On a stake upon the prairie, where the wild sunflowers 

flame. 
And she built a paintless dwelling on a treeless, manless 

claim. 



It was n't long, it happens, ere the news was spread broad- 
cast. 

And the cowboys came to view her — and they came a-rid- 
ing fast — 

And Miss Prue, who'd had no suitors, said: "The tide has 
turned at lastT' 



116 CACTUS CENTER 

Now ponies cluster Sundays round the Perkins ranch-house 

small. 
And the Perkins parlor bursteth with admirers who call. 
And a ticket to New England would n't please Miss Prue 

at all! 



PROSPECTING TIME 

It's time to pack the bacon and the flour and the beans — 
It's time to roll the tarpaulin and choose a suit of jeans; 
The big snow-caps have melted, and the streams are calling 

clear, 
It's time to go a-prospecting — to wander far from here. 

It's time to bring the burro from his grazing on the hill — 
There 's more grass in the mountains where the cuss can eat 

his fill; 
It's time to get the hob-nails, and to oil the mountain 

boots; 
There's gold there on the hillsides — it beckons at grass 

roots. 

It 's time to leave the highway, and to wander up the trail — 
To start again the questing of the hearts that never fail; 
It's time to build a fire on the heights at timber-line; 
We can find good health, my partners, if we never find a 
mine. 

(117) 



THE OLD TRAPPER SPEAKS 

You are clever, they're telling me, youngster, 

With your traps and your poisoned bait; 
You travel the plains in a wagon — 

We hoofed it with cautious gait; 
You sleep every night under canvas. 

You've comforts galore when you halt — 
But could you take traps and your rifle 

And live for a year without salt? 

You have kettles and pans — and your wagon 

Resembles a grocery store; 
We had to depend on our powder 

For grub and the clothes that we wore; 
You set up your tent in the open — 

To us every shadow cried "Halt!" 
Could you half-roast your kill, like an Injun, 

And live for a year without salt? 

You are skillful, no doubting it, youngster. 
But would your skill answer their test? 

Would you hazard your life on one bullet 
With a savage's knife at your breast? 



THE OLD TRAPPER SPEAKS 119 

Those were giants — those hunters of beaver. 

Whose bravery rose to a fault. 
Could you turn to a land that was trailless 

And live, as they lived, without salt? 



THE FORESTER'S RETURN 

I'm back on the job by the singing river. 

Far from the town with its money-mad. 
Back where the quaking aspens quiver — 
And I 'm glad. 

I'm back to the place where the trail is winding 

'Mid flowers of every scent and hue. 
And I felt, when I gazed, the hot tears blinding - 
Would n't you? 

I 'm back to the creak of the good old saddle. 

To the equine friends that never doubt; 
Back to the haunts — with canoe and paddle — 
Of the trout. 

There's work to do, and there's work in plenty, 

And it's sleep in the open, if fate so wills. 
But no man is more than one-and-twenty 
In the hills. 

(120) 



THE PROSPECTORS' HOMING 

They're coming in across the hills — 

The prospectors' brigade; 
The Jacks and Toms and Neds and Bills 

From peak and gulch and glade. 
They've all come back with tales to tell. 

And some red gold will bring; 
The lads that, when the first buds swell, 

Are leaving in the spring. 

Their boots strike fire from the stones, 

As they swing down the trail; 
From out the Great Divide's grim cones 

They come with merry hail; 
The burros walk at swifter pace — 

The keen air grows more cold; 
Thus ends the Westland's yearly race 

For Nature's hidden gold. 

They come from out the silent seas. 
Where waves of rock ne'er break; 

They've dwelt among great mysteries, 
By mountain, stream, and lake; 



122 CACTUS CENTER 

The seacoast city, salt and damp. 
Has hardy souls that roam. 

But what can match the mining camp 
When the prospectors come home? 



THE WATER-HOLE 

The buzzard floats above it, wings aslant — 
His feasts are those who perish at the brink — 

And, far oJBf where the dying cattle pant, 
Like shadows do the desert skulkers slink. 

Like burnished copper in a molten sky. 
The sun has shone upon it through the day, 

And toward it, o'er the reaches hot and dry. 
The creatures of the wild have dragged their way. 

Upon its edge, amongst the footprints there. 
One reads with ease, upon the whitened slope, 

The story of each fight against despair. 
And how, at last, have man and beast found hope. 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proc 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologi 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVAl 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 



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